First ImpressionsAn Anchorhead Chronicle
by KnightMara
Summary: The first day of school for a certain young boy from Tatooine.


The small, wiry, towheaded boy hopped briskly from the aging landspeeder and ambled into the Anchorhead schoolyard. Appearing neither shy nor eager, he gave no indication that this was his very first day of school. He crossed the schoolyard as though the action were routine, and did not bother to wave goodbye to the landspeeder behind him as it departed toward the endless sea of sand and sky from which it had come. In fact, there was nothing about the boy to warrant any unusual attention from the schoolyard crowd. He was dressed in the same loose-fitting tunic and pants as most of the other children, although his showed a slight hint of wear that some of the others did not. Like the other occupants of the schoolyard, his skin had darkened in the sun in spite of liberal use of sunscreens and protective clothing, and his thin frame spoke of a harsh life on a desert planet. It was clear that, like most of the schoolchildren, he was the child of moisture farmers, although there were a few city-dwellers among the crowd. Moving across the schoolyard like a seasoned student, he made his way to the shaded southern wall of the school and propped himself nonchalantly near the entrance. There, unnoticed, he flicked his blue eyes across the scene and took everything in.

A cluster of boys to his left were talking animatedly about the latest holodrama they'd seen, reciting dialogue and trying to visually reenact the best parts. Further down, a small boy about his own age stood stiffly against the wall looking as though he were afraid for his life. Several yards to his right, a group of girls were talking and pointing to a group of boys who stood in the center of the yard. Those boys appeared to be examining the latest Skyhopper model-kit that one of the boys had assembled and was proudly holding up to the admiration of the others. 

Suddenly, an older, black-haired boy moved angrily toward the shaded wall, muttering under his breath at something metallic he held in his hands. A closer look revealed it to be one of the more expensive data recorders/readers that had just appeared on the Tatooine market. The young blonde kid watched as the other poked, shook, prodded, and smacked the object in his hands in total frustration.

"Damn," he muttered loud enough for those nearby to hear the curse. Although he didn't look a day over eight years old, his demeanor seemed to suggest that he was a kid to be respected, and his curse caught the attention of those around him. He didn't seem to notice, however, and continued to scold the contraption. "Come on and work, will ya'?"

Unguarded as he watched the older boy fuss, the blonde accidentally let a slight giggle escape his lips. He immediately tried to suppress his mirth and look away, but it was too late.

"What're you laughing at?" demanded the black-haired boy. 

A few pairs of eyes turned toward him at the angry sound of his voice, and toward the youngster who seemed to have provoked him.

The younger boy shook his head, his blue eyes casting over the older boy's tailored shirt and crisp black pants. This kid certainly wasn't a farmer's son, and he wasn't going to be made a fool of. Swallowing the lump that had unexpectedly appeared in his throat, the blonde stammered, "N-nothing."

The older boy pressed on, his black eyes blazing. "What? Is something funny to you, farmboy?"

At this, the youth bristled, and drew himself up to face this city boy. "No," he answered, in a clear voice.

"Well, then what gives?" 

Without a word, the blonde reached out and snatched the offending piece of machinery out of the older boy's hand before he could react. Gasps of astonishment ran through the gathering crowd of children.

One of the holodrama watchers whispered, "You ain't gonna let him do that, are ya', Biggs?"

Biggs quickly shut his gaping jaw, and with all the resolution an eight year-old could muster, he replied loudly, "Not on your life!" He advanced on the youngster with fierce determination. "Give it back, you little–"

A single raise of the small kid's hand and his intense, blue-eyed stare abruptly cut him off. "Wait," was all he said before he lowered his hand and reached into the small knapsack slung over his shoulder.

Biggs would never be able to fully explain how a tiny runt of a kid got him to freeze, dumbfounded, with only a word and a gaze. But here he was, watching in awe as the small boy somehow managed to work a miracle with his tiny fingers and a slender piece of sharpened metal. After a few moments, the boy pocketed his tool, flicked a switch, and the datapad sprang to life.

He held the now fully functional machine out toward the older boy, saying, "There, it's fixed."

Still dazed, Biggs took it from the kid and murmured, "Thanks."

The kid shrugged in reply as the crowd around them, disappointed that the whole affair had ended so amicably, began to disperse.

Biggs stared at the datapad for a few moments before looking back toward the kid. "How?"

With another shrug, the boy answered, "It was nothing, really. I don't think they were designed with Tatooine's dust in mind." He pointed to the side of the device, brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes as he did so. "Sand gets into those small holes there and blocks the feed from the power source." 

Again, Biggs found himself staring in awe. Here was a boy who looked no older than four talking like an adult about a mechanical problem. And not only was he talking like an adult, but he also seemed like one. It was though he was a much older man trapped in a little kid's body.

Just then, the boy scrunched his nose dubiously and added, "At least I think that was the problem. But it's fixed now." And suddenly he was simply a boy again.

Shaking off the lingering shock, he smiled and took the boy's hand in his, shaking it vigorously, "Biggs Darklighter. I'm eight, Third-year."

The tow-headed boy smiled in return, although he seemed taken aback by the handshake. "I'm Luke Skywalker, six." He pulled his hand out of Biggs' sturdy grip, and added, "This is my first day."

The older boy clapped him on the back the way he often saw his father do with fellow businessmen. "Well, then, Luke," he said enthusiastically, "welcome to Anchorhead."

"Thanks," Luke replied. 

Luke wandered into the First Year classroom and looked around. Biggs had been kind enough to show him where it was before taking off to his Third Year classroom down the hall. As Luke moved through the room, he noticed sheets of flimsy attached to the classroom tables at equal distance from one another, and further inspection showed that someone had written on these sheets in the most perfect penmanship he'd ever seen. Aunt Beru certainly didn't write like this, he mused. 

At that moment, a loud female voice spoke clearly from the front of the room. "Please find your names and take a seat."

So that was it. Luke scrambled around in search of his name. Last year, Aunt Beru had taught him both how to read it and how to write it. She'd joked that with a name like Skywalker, he'd need as much practice as he could get so he'd better learn early. And she was right. Imperial script wasn't the easiest alphabet to master, and it had taken him weeks of practice before he got it just right, nearly breaking his already fragile patience. Now, however, he was thankful for his Aunt's persistence, for he was quickly able to find his name and take a seat, while others scrambled about frantic and confused. Looking down at the perfectly printed flimsy in front of him, he scowled. He still needed a lot more practice at writing, he noted.

It was easy to identify the teacher as she made her way through the crowd of bustling students, for she towered over all of them. She was, as Biggs had described, the perfect Imperial educator. The severe bun into which her dark brown hair had been tightly pulled complemented her crisp blue teacher's uniform. Biggs had informed him that it was often difficult to tell the difference between the First Year teacher and the Fifth because they all looked the same. Some were a little heavier, others had more wrinkles in their skin, but they were all cut from the same mold. All human, all females. And the only Imperial representation on a Hutt-dominated world. Seeing her now in front of the room, Luke found himself laughing at Biggs' dead-on characterization. As he watched her, she pointed out the desks to individual students who didn't seem able to find their names, all the while calling out, "Find your names and have a seat."

The boy that Luke had noticed earlier cowering in fear in the schoolyard now seemed to be cowering in fear from the teacher as she made her way through the room. Immediately sensing that the boy needed help, and perhaps a friend, Luke hopped out of his seat and scrambled toward him.

"Hey," he said by way of greeting when he'd reached the fearful boy, but he got no response but a terrified stare. Luke tried again. "I'm Luke. What's your name?"

Still nothing.

"Find your seats everyone," came the call from the teacher once more.

Luke rolled his eyes and continued to try to help the boy. "Tell me your name so I can show you where you need to sit."

With wide eyes and trembling lips, the boy managed a light squeak that sounded like, "Deak."

"Deak? That it?" 

The boy nodded slowly. That was good enough to start with, Luke figured. He grabbed the little boy's hand, which was cold and clammy with fear, and led him through the room as he searched for the word "Deak" on the sheets of flimsy. 

"If you can't find your name, come stand along the wall here," hollered the teacher. "If you've already found your name, have a seat."

Deak froze and was about the head over to the wall, when Luke pointed to a nearby seat at table. "There, that's you, right there."

Deak seemed unsure, glancing back and forth from the teacher to Luke. 

Luke blew at his bangs in frustration. His patience was wearing thin. "Look, that sheet says your name." He practically had to drag the terrified boy to his seat. "Trust me, it's you. So just sit down." When Deak meekly complied, Luke smiled proudly and headed back to his own seat. "You'll be all right," he added to Deak as he left, glancing over his shoulder.

With his attention focused behind him instead of in front, he managed to walk right into the blue uniform of the stern-faced teacher.

"And just what are you doing, young man?"

Luke froze. Staring into the teacher's face, he noted that she was rather young and would have been considered pretty if her expression wasn't so cold and threatening. Fighting the chill she sent through him, he opened his mouth to speak.

She didn't give him the chance. "I thought I told you to stand against the wall or have a seat."

Luke was frantic. This was not the way he wanted to start off his first day. "I-I-I was j-just trying to–"

"I'm not here to listen to excuses," she said, cutting him off. "Nor will I tolerate trouble makers. Follow directions or forfeit your education. It's your choice."

Luke had no idea what the word "forfeit" meant, but he didn't want to stand there and find out. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered as he made his way back to his seat, aware that she was watching him the whole time. She did not turn back to the rest of the children standing by the wall until he had slipped into his chair attempting to hide his burning face with a bowed head.

He was aware of the stray giggles around the room and of the many eyes that were upon him, and his spirits sunk to a new low. He vaguely heard the teacher issuing instructions to the standing students as he traced his name on the flimsy with his forefinger, focusing his mind on the simple action of following the lines and curves of the letters until he could get a grip on his emotions. A nudge from the boy next to him caused him to look up. 

"What?" he moaned quietly.

With a cock of his head, the boy indicated that the teacher was now giving instructions to them.

" . . .. and trace the letters on the screen with your stylus, " she was saying. "Any questions?" When she was met with only silent stares, she concluded, "Then you may begin."

Luke looked over at the boy who had nudged him and watched as he slipped his hand under the table and switched on the surface screen. Luke followed his actions, and a screen appeared in front of him. Glancing back over to see what the other boy was doing, he watched as he tapped one of the icons on the screen with his finger and an alphabet appeared. He removed the stylus that was attached to the top of his screen and began tracing the letters. Within seconds, Luke was also tracing letters in Imperial script.

Within a few more seconds, he was utterly bored.

The tracing continued until well after all of the children were finally seated by the teacher, and well past the limits of Luke's attention span. By the time the teacher finally brought the assignment to an end, Luke had used the stylus to press the images of a Krayt dragon, a bantha herd, and a nightmarish creature from his imagination into the flimsy attached to the table. He'd been tempted to use the ink in his knapsack, but he figured that he would almost certainly get in trouble for drawing on his "nametag" in such a fashion. So he was content to simply draw and redraw the images until imprints were made in the flimsy that were all but invisible unless you peered closely. Pleased with his handiwork, he nearly missed the teacher's instructions again.

And so it went throughout the morning. One boring lesson after another, while Luke silently carved drawings into and around his name on the sheet of flimsy. At last, it was time for lunch, and Luke hopped out of his seat with the eagerness of a prisoner being granted freedom at long last.

"Before you go, children," the teacher called out just as the mob of students was reaching the door, "there are several students I wish to speak to. If I call your name, please remain behind for a few minutes."

A collective groan was emitted by the crowd and was immediately silenced by the teacher's stern glare. As she read her list of names, Luke's energy quickly evaporated. His name was on her list.

He gloomily watched the rest of the children file out of the classroom, while he and three others remained behind. The four looked at each other, the teacher, their shoes, the walls, wondering why they had been held back.

"Have a seat, each of you," the teacher said with the same commanding tone she used with the entire classroom. "I will call you up one at a time."

Luke silently prayed that he would be called first so that he could get out of there and meet Biggs in the lunchroom as they had agreed. As luck would have it, he was the last one called.

"I can see I'm going to have problems with you," she began as he stood before her, the last student in the empty classroom. She tapped the data screen in front of her and began to read various bits of information from it aloud. "Skywalker. Resides with aunt and uncle, both agricultural workers. Parents deceased. No other living relatives. Substandard income." She touched the screen again before turning to him. "Well, that might explain your poor performance this morning."

Luke could only stare at her stiffly. Although only six, he knew immediately what she was suggesting, and his mind reeled. He felt as though he were under a scope, being examined by this cold woman who read the basic facts of his life off of a screen with an iciness that was carelessly disguised as objectivity. She could see the labels she was creating for him clearly. Orphan. Farmer. Poor, poor boy. And in his mind's eye, he saw himself tearing up each and every one of them. He hated this teacher, even though his uncle had told him it was wrong to hate. And he would show her that she was wrong. 

"Take a look at this data," she said, interrupting his thoughts. He shifted so he could see what she was pointing to. "These are your performance indicators for this morning. Writing, 50%. Identification, 41%. Comprehension, 22%. Numbers, 37%. Recall, 17%. You gave up on that last assignment after less than five minutes." She swept her arm to indicate the room and it's tables and chairs. "All of these screens feed into this assessment program so that I can be constantly updated on your progress. And right now," she stressed, pointing back to her screen," you are performing below even basic entry level. Now how do you explain that?"

Luke remained silent.

"Young man, I need to see some improvements this afternoon," she continued when he didn't respond. "Both in behavior and in academic performance. Do you understand me?"

Luke nodded.

The teacher pursed her lips in grim satisfaction. "I truly hope so. Now go to lunch."

Slipping quietly out of the classroom, he headed in the direction of the lunchroom. To be honest, however, he didn't feel very hungry. His first day of school wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. He was bored with the lessons and he hated the teacher. And, so far, the only friend he'd made wasn't in his class because he was a Third Year student. All the First Years had laughed at him. Brushing his hair out of his eyes, he fervently hoped that things wouldn't get any worse.

He slipped into the lunchroom and headed over to the food line. Aunt Beru had been pressed for time, so she'd given him a few credits instead of packing a lunch. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the credits and deposited them into the dispensing unit. With the tray, plate, and utensils it provided, he moved along the lunchline and grabbed the most edible-looking items he could find. There wasn't much left. Grimacing at his chosen selection, he headed toward the tables to eat. 

He didn't quite make it. 

A leg suddenly shot out of nowhere, tripping him and landing him in the middle of his lunch. Caked in a mixture of overly processed meats and vegetables, he quickly righted himself and spun on the owner of the leg who was now laughing uproariously at the mess he had caused. A long, athletic looking boy, he appeared to be a few years older and several pounds heavier than Luke was. 

"Awww, what's the matter, runt?" the boy laughed. 

Realizing that he'd probably be pulverized if he tried to fight back, Luke, picked up his tray and began heading toward an empty seat a few feet away, scraping food off of his face and tunic as he walked.

"Watch you don't slip," the boy called after him. 

Luke tried to ignore him as he scanned the lunchroom crowd for their reactions. He saw a few other First Year kids covered in food as he was, and realized he wasn't alone in this situation. One young dark-haired girl was crying as food dripped from her neatly plaited braids, and another boy was fuming in the corner. From behind him, Luke heard, "That's six for six, Fix. Two more little worms, and you've got a record for the first day." This was followed by a peal of laughter.

Suddenly, Luke set his tray down upon the nearest table and turned back toward the group of boys, scraping more food off of his tunic and balling it in his fists as he did so. He stopped in front of "Fix" and simply stood there, staring down at him.

"There a problem, worm?" the boy asked, with just an edge of menace in his voice.

Luke shook his head. "No, no problem. It's just that my aunt always told me it was best to share, so . . .. " And with that, he hurled a fist full of food which landed squarely in the middle of the boy's face. "Didn't want you to miss out on all the fun," he added, flicking the remnants off his fingers. 

A few cheers went up from the First Year kids in the lunchroom as Luke turned back to retrieve his tray. 

Wiping the muck off of his face, the older boy bolted up and lunged at Luke's retreating back. "You little–"

He was intercepted by Biggs who pushed him back into his seat, saying, "Let it go, Fixer."

"What!?"

"You heard me," Biggs replied, more forcefully. Then he cracked a smile. "The kid beat you at your own game. Face it. No longer a perfect score, Fixer."

Fixer still seemed bent on revenge, but Biggs simply handed him a napkin, keeping firmly in the way of the boy's path to Luke. Grudgingly, Fixer took the napkin and began cleaning himself off. Biggs risked a glance toward Luke, who was likewise engaged in cleaning up the mess of food that covered him while several kids crowded around in congratulations. As Luke caught Biggs' stare, the two grinned at each other.

The kid had impressed Biggs Darklighter twice in one day, which was no easy feat. He'd definitely have to keep an eye on this one. Who knew where he'd end up. 

That afternoon, Luke diligently fought off boredom as he struggled through the remaining lessons of the day. He'd received a questioning glance from the teacher when he'd come back from lunch still sporting the caked remnants of his lunch, but thankfully she did not say a word. Through his encounter with Fixer, he'd managed to earn the respect of several members of the classroom, relieving him of the feeling of isolation he'd had this morning. Even the shy kid, Deak, had come up to him after lunch.

"That was so wizard," he'd said, showing the first hint of non-terrified energy even as he used such out-dated slang. Luke had tried not to gag on his choice of words.

The little girl with the dark plaited hair had made contact, too. Well, to an extent. She winked at him from across the room as they sat in class. Luke's heart fluttered at that, and he continued to glance in her direction for the rest of the day. He'd have to make sure to get her name sometime soon. 

Eventually, the day came to a close and Luke was dismissed with the rest of the class. As the students filed out of the room, Luke held back a moment. He turned to the teacher with an iciness that matched her own and asked, "How are my percentages now, ma'am?"

She tapped her screen and he noticed the briefest flash of surprise across her eyes as she read his performance reports. It faded quickly, however, as she turned back to him. "Overall," she said, "about 80."

Smiling inwardly, Luke nodded and strolled out of the room.

He was met outside by Biggs and the kid who sat next to him in class. His name was Tank and it turned out that he and Biggs had known each other practically since Tank had been born.

"Fixer's still mad at you," Biggs informed with a grin. "But don't worry, he'll cool down after a few days."

"A few days?" Luke asked in disbelief. "What am I supposed to do until then?"

Biggs shrugged. "Just steer clear and keep next to me." When Luke continued to stare at him questioningly, he added, "He wouldn't dare pick a fight with me. My dad would eat his dad alive if he did."

"Who's your dad?"

This time it was Tank's turn to stare at Luke in disbelief. "You an offworlder or something? His dad is Huff Darklighter!" When it was obvious that this meant nothing to Luke, he explained, "One of the richest men on Tatooine." 

Luke simply shrugged.

Tank shook his head in disgust. "What'd you do? Crawl out from under a rock or something?"

Biggs frowned at him. "Hey, lay off. Maybe the kid's parents don't tell him this stuff. Or maybe he lives far enough out in the wastes that it doesn't matter anyway to them anyway. Maybe they're self-sufficient farmers. I've never heard of the Skywalkers. So what? It's no big deal. Okay?"

"Sure," Tank muttered.

Luke whispered something that barely caught the ear of the other two boys.

"Huh?" Biggs asked.

Luke took a deep breath. "They're dead," he repeated softly.

"Who?" 

"My parents." Luke continued quietly when the two boys remained silently stunned. "My father was a navigator on a spice freighter, and it crashed before I was born. I live with my Aunt and Uncle."

"What about your mom?" Biggs asked sadly.

Luke shook his head and shrugged. He felt suddenly choked up, the way he always did when he thought about his mother. He had no memory of her, knew absolutely nothing about her, and yet he always felt an immense sadness when he tried to remember her, ask about her, or talk about her. He couldn't explain it. And right now, he couldn't give in to the feelings of sadness he suddenly felt. Not only was it babyish to cry, it was also shameful to waste water in the desert. So he simply swallowed and whispered, "I don't know."

The two other boys could not imagine what he felt, so they simply stood there for a moment, letting him work through his grief. When it became too uncomfortable, Biggs chirped, "Hey, did I tell you I'm getting a speederbike for my birthday?" 

The question was thrown out there to lighten the mood. It came out of nowhere, but it had its desired effect. Both Tank and Luke looked up at him in awe.

"Really?" Tank cried. "No way!"

"A real speederbike?" pressed Luke.

Biggs nodded proudly. "I'm gonna drive it to school once I get it."

"And watch it get stolen," added Tank, laughing.

"It will not get stolen. It'll have a coded locking mechanism."

Luke paused a moment. "Hey, isn't it illegal for anyone under twelve to drive one of those things?"

Biggs waved off the question with a dismissive hand. "Fifteen. And who cares? Like they're gonna stop me?"

"Cool," Tank conceded. "So can I drive it before it gets stolen."

"No way! You're only six. And it will not get stolen."

"So? You're only eight."

"And I'm a helluva lot bigger than you."

"Says who?"

Luke interrupted, "Sorry guys, but I gotta run. My uncle's here. See ya' tomorrow." 

"Sure, Luke," nodded Tank.

"Bye," called Biggs as Luke scurried over to the waiting landspeeder.

Luke turned and waved before getting in. A second later, he was gone, headed out toward the wastes and leaving his first two friends behind.

Sitting beside his uncle, he reflected on the day's occurrences. So far he'd made a handful of friends, two enemies, and had gone from a failure in school to above average. Not bad for one day. It was eventful , to say the least.

"So how was your first day of school, Luke?" his uncle Owen asked as they headed toward the homestead.

Luke gave a characteristic shrug of the shoulders. "It was okay."

Tomorrow would be better.


End file.
